I. 100 Million Dollar Bagels
She’s asking for just a little money, for a drink or some food. She tells us she has no one else. Stepping forward, struggling to stand straight against a force that's pushing only against her, I thought: schizophrenic.
The missing front tooth: heroin addict.
I'm carrying a bag full of leftovers from work. The trades say it was a hundred million dollar deal; we celebrate with bagels and halves of muffins. It's better than prostitution, she says unwrapping the bagel I've handed her, and moves to the other end of the car.
A man in a business suit smiles at me before returning to his paper. He's validating my action; saying that I'm good. His lips crack something inside of me; a reserve I didn't know was there. Broken from his smile, focusing on my breathing; I look towards the ceiling at nothing for blocks wondering why it's his smile that's causing me to cry.
II. It’s Better than Prostitution
Heading home late on a Sunday night with half a carton of leftover Malaysian food. I love when boys buy me food. It's the highlight of most post-graduates' dating experiences: we're not looking for love; we're looking for lo mein. The door between the cars opens and a woman stumbles forward, starting her presentation:
"It’s better than prostitution."
She looks like the bagel woman; her speech is similar, but most of theirs are. I sit there, frantically trying to figure out if it's her while trying not to be noticed; to look without moving, without eye contact.
I had been experimenting with form when writing about the bagel woman; the ten-sentence essay, something I had learned months before in college. I wanted it to match an earlier piece, to try and turn my thoughts on the subway into something cohesive; a series of similar pieces. In this instance I had forced the sentences, the point, and somehow portrayed myself as strangely empathetic. There is a fine line between poignant and over dramatic.
A scar stretches across her cheek and I try to think back to the bagel woman, but I never saw her profile. I think about my future lunch sitting next to me on the train. I tell myself it's spicy; that she won’t like it. That somehow the saliva from my fork is mixed in the food; that she doesn't need to eat my DNA; that I didn't pack a plastic fork.
A professor told us once that time needs to pass before we can write about the events in our life. That we need the emotional distance; we can't see what we are looking at close up. I think of it as a mosaic, or comic book art; small bits of color that from a distance make the picture, make you understand what you are looking at.
She walks away empty-handed before I can remember to look for a missing front tooth. Sometimes I wonder if the homeless and beggars make out worse in more recent years, with the increased use of ATM cards and the decreased use of cash. I picture homeless with tap-and-go ATM devices, but only if there is a way to bypass the five dollar minimum. I feel my face turn hot, spasm, and wonder if the tears below the surface are there out of obligation, out of feeling you can't not cry when you see the same woman you've cried over before, or because your leftover dinner is sitting next to you and she’s telling you she’s hungry.
Four more stops to emotional distance.
Brooke Wacha, a radio chick who started writing somewhere along the way, recently moved into New York City after completing a summer fellowship with the International Radio and Television Society. She lives with her best friend, an Alaskan, and a kitten who tries to eat her turtle, "Baby."
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